"Go after that stupid sister of mine."

"With pleasure."

"She and Emile..." She brushed at tears with the back of her hand, but Straker had no illusions. She'd be fine. She was fully engaged, determined.

"They're devoted to each other. You know it, you've seen it yourself.

And they're just alike. They act first, think later.

They're so smart they usually can get away with it. "

"Not this time. This time, they need to goddamn back off."

"They won't. Neither one."

He nodded. "When you get to the hospital, call the police. Tell them everything."

"I will. I promise."

He believed her. In her own way she was as strong as the rest of her family. It would be a mistake, Straker thought, to underestimate Sig St. Joe Granger's strength.

Matt was regaining consciousness, and Sig shut the door on him before he could fall out or try to go after Emile himself. She hurried around to the driver's side and climbed in, started the engine, gunned it and was off.

Straker headed back into her house. It was quiet, its elegance marred by the smears of blood on the walls, floor and woodwork. He went down to the kitchen and out to the pretty courtyard garden, which had obviously been neglected in recent months.

No trail of bread crumbs. He reined in his frustration knew there was no point in following Riley on foot. He wasn't worried about her few minutes' head start, but she knew Beacon Hill better than he did. He'd be lucky to find his way back out to the street from the damned courtyard.

He went back to his car. He'd missed Granger's entrance; he'd missed Emile. He shook his head, disgusted with himself.

The snaking network of hilly one-way streets, originally designed for horses, tangled him up and slowed him down. He stopped in the middle of Louisburg Square, realizing Riley could have followed Emile all the way to Logan Airport and onto a plane to Greece or South America by now.

He double-parked and checked Abigail Granger's house. Locked up tight.

He rang the doorbell, knocked. No answer. He stood on the front stoop, imagined himself on Labreque Island. It was a clear, warm, perfect September day. He'd take his kayak out, sit on the rocks, maybe dip his feet in the bay. But that life seemed remote now, as if the past six months had collapsed into a matter of seconds.

So what was Matt Granger doing here that got him pushed down the stairs and thrashed?

Straker drove down the hill to Mass. General Hospital. No Sig in the ER waiting room. No police arriving to take her and her husband's statements. Straker swore under his breath and pushed his way to Matt Granger's treatment room. The doctors had gotten right to work. His broken forearm was already set, and he had his ribs wrapped and the cuts and bruises on his face treated. He looked like hell, physically and emotionally spent.

He glanced at Straker. Even beaten to shit, the man had a patrician look about him.

"Where's Sig?" But Straker's hesitation told him, and he jumped off the treatment table and grabbed his shirt, shrugged it on as he addressed the doctor who'd been shining a light in his eyes.

"I have to go."

"Mr. Granger, I don't recommend" -- "My wife is in danger. You have any Tyienol or something you can give me?"

"You need something stronger."

Granger shook his head.

"Anything stronger'll knock me out."

The doctor sighed, handed him samples of Extra- Strength Tyienol and Tyienol with codeine.

"I want you back here. You're leaving against my advice."

"I know, Doc." Matt gave a rakish, Robert Redford grin, despite his swollen, bloody face.

"I won't sue you."

The doctor wasn't amused. He kept arguing as Granger headed for the door. Adrenaline and pain had him focused and alert. Straker didn't try to stop him. If Sig St. Joe was his own wife, he'd drag his ass off an ER treatment table and go after her.

"I'll look after him," he told the doctor, "and get him back here as soon as I can."

The doctor didn't like that, either, but there was nothing he could do.

"Sig would blithely walk into the mouth of a dragon," Granger told him as they headed outside.

"She's oblivious. Here she's nearly been killed, I've nearly been killed and she goes off" -He grimaced, as if he'd thought too far ahead already and couldn't stand what he saw. "What the hell is she thinking?"

"Riley took off after Emile."

"Damn it. They're both impossible."

"You said it yourself. Loving a St. Joe isn't easy."

Matt half fell into Straker's front seat.

"If I brought this on Sig" -- "That kind of thing won't get you anywhere," Straker warned, and shut the door.

He took Cambridge Street to Government Center, snaked through the jammed traffic and endless waterfront construction and tried to push back his own rampant thoughts.

"If you're right and Emile killed Cassain, he wouldn't deliberately hurt his own granddaughters. He had that chance back on Chestnut Street. Instead he got out bandages for you."

Granger cradled his broken arm, swallowed the Extra-Strength Tyienol without water. He had to be in immense pain.

"You don't think it's Emile."

Straker reluctantly slowed for a stoplight, clenched the wheel.

"No, I don't."

"I just don't know anymore. My family..." Granger shut his eyes briefly, every fiber exuding misery on a large scale. He swallowed.

"Christ."

"Maine CID talked to your stepmother this morning. They found the engine parts Cassain brought up from the Encounter in an outbuilding at your family house on Mount Desert. Do you know how they got there?"

Granger sat in tight-lipped silence. Straker didn't push it. He pulled up in front of the Boston Center for Oceanographic Research. No reporters jumped in front of his car, which was at least something. '

"You stay put. Security's suspicious of me as it is. They don't need to see me walk in with a bloodied Granger. Keep the car running." He gave Granger a hard look.

"Ten minutes. That's all I need. You steal my car and pass out and kill a pedestrian" -- "Ten minutes. Go."

On his way Straker called Richard St. Joe on his cell phone.

"I've lost both your daughters. You want to let me in?"

"I'll meet you at the main entrance."

"Henry Armistead has me down as a stalker."

"Screw Henry."

Despite his rumpled, distracted appearance, Richard St. Joe commanded a certain respect among the center's staff. The security guards let Straker pass.

Straker didn't mince words.

"Your son-in-law just had the shit kicked out of him at Abigail Granger's house. Is she here?"

"I don't know. I think so. John, what the hell's going on?"

"Someone sabotaged the Encounter last year. It should have been a nice little explosion that made everyone feel bad. Instead it was a great big explosion that sank the ship and killed five people."

"Jesus Christ," St. Joe said.

"That's the short version."

"Emile?"

Straker gave a tight shake of the head.

"No." For the first time, he was convinced his instincts were right.

It wasn't Emile.

"Sam Cassain came out and blamed Emile, and that suited the saboteur just fine. With the Encounter at the bottom of the ocean, there was no proof of what really happened. Then your son- in-law secretly funded Cassain's bid to bring up the ship's engine. He succeeded."

"And the engine showed evidence of sabotage. Do you think that's what Sam expected?" "Initially, I think he was just looking for something that proved conclusively that Emile was responsible."

"But he found evidence of sabotage," Richard St. Joe said, "and it got him killed. Knowing Sam, he tried to blackmail whoever was responsible for the Encounter."

Straker nodded.

"That's my guess." He provided a quick rundown of the day's festivities. He tried to be clinical, professional, objective, tried to ignore the twist of pain in his gut that told him he was long past playing this one as an outsider.

"Will Matt be all right if he doesn't get back to the hospital?"

Richard asked, white-faced.

"He won't be comfortable, but he won't die."

"Emile couldn't have done that to him."

"No."

"I want my daughters safe. Just tell me what to do."

Richard looked as if he'd be sick. Straker had seen both his daughters get sick, and they'd had that same aura about them. But Richard held on, and they reached Abigail's office. It was her father's old office, tucked in a corner down from the main administrative offices. She had no regular hours, no full-time secretary She wasn't in, and the door was locked. Straker held on to the doorknob, glanced at Richard St. Joe. "You up to a little breaking and entering? If not, look the other way. Is there an alarm?"

"No. Security's not that tight once you're inside the building. If you need an extra shoulder " But the door came with one good, hard shove.

Richard St. Joe followed him inside. "What do you expect to find in here?"

"I don't know. Matt was attacked at Abigail's, and she and Henry have worked hard this past year after the Encounter tragedy."

"She's devoted to the center, as much as her father ever was. She fought long and hard to get him and Emile both to pay more attention to membership. She wants more programs, more community outreach."

"You?"

"That's not my area of expertise."

Straker sat at her desk. The furnishings were surprisingly utilitarian, the view spectacular. He tried to get into her computer, but it was password protected. He spun around in her chair, St. Joe pacing nervously.

Definitely rusty, Straker thought. He could sense the connections spinning around him, but he couldn't put them together, make any sense out of them.

He stood up, examined Abigail's wall of framed pictures.

"Are these her pictures?"

"No, they're still from Bennett. She's hardly changed a thing in here since his death." Richard smiled wistfully as he fingered a vase of flowers. "A new computer and flowers."

"Who's this?"

Straker pointed to a small framed picture of a man in fire fighting attire. Richard peered over his shoulder. He was fidgety, a little less green.

"That's Henry Armistead and that's Bennett next to him."

He pointed to a tall, white-haired man; Straker realized he wouldn't have recognized Bennett Granger. St. Joe went on, "Bennett had flown out to California during wildfires that threatened delicate stretches of the coast. He wanted to see for himself if there was any thing the center could do."

"When was this?"

"About four years ago. Henry was the executive director of a small, private California marine research institute. He trained as a volunteer firefighter for those wildfires that get out of control there. Bennett liked him, and when the job opened up here, he brought Henry in."

Straker continued to stare at the picture. An administrator-oceanographer who would know ships. A firefighter who would know fires. And a man in love with a wealthy woman whose father wasn't killed in an accidental explosion, after all.

The puzzle pieces stopped spinning. They settled, connected together.